


Reflex

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Series: NSFW Stridercest Week 2017 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Outdoor Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Roof Sex, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9390440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: NSFW STRIDERCEST WEEK 2017 DAY 3: Outdoors/Public Place





	

“One, two--come on, forward, _forward_ , it’s like I’m fighting a fucking thirteen-year-old.”

Your face pinches. This would be a lot easier if you could regulate your body temperature by sweating--well, maybe, it’s so humid out it might not make much of a difference. “Maybe because the last time I touched a sword, I _was_  thirteen.”

It’s a subtle dig, one only Dirk would notice. That’s why you said it. “Uh, excuse you, bro, it’s a _daitō_  and you will respect that.”

“You know what _daitō_  means?” You relax your posture. Just enough that Dirk thinks he has an opening, and he snaps forward to get his blade in the space you just left. Like you didn’t expect that (like you aren’t him), like you don’t bring your own sword down to trap the tip of his against the concrete of the rooftop. You hope it chips. Dirk’s close enough that you can lean forward to whisper straight into his ear. “It means _long sword._  Precision, precision.” You click your tongue at him. “It’s a two-and-a-half- _shaku_   _tachi_ , you pleb.”

Dirk flicks his wrist up, dislodges the length of your blade, and feints, trying to catch you in the back. You’re too fast for him, not allowing him the cheap shot, and as you pivot on your heel, he retreats back into his own personal space. You can’t see his eyes, but light is just barely traveling across his shades as he tries to take in the situation, see what you’re playing at. “It’s a katana,” he insists. “A _katana--_ ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.” With some effort, you slow yourself down, try to drop your center of gravity without Dirk noticing. You want to spring on him here, propel off the rooftop with the superhuman strength of your legs until you trap him against one of the edges here with the force of your forward attack momentum. “You were _so proud_  when you bought these from the mall kiosk that you got a free fedora, you respect them _so much_  that you wear them with the cutting edge down, and you’re _so competent_  with them that you disregard centuries of war arts to draw one-handed and attack in the same movement.”

“One of these days,” Dirk mutters, “I’m going to break your instant uplink to the Internet so you can’t access Wikipedia when I’m trying to teach you something.” His skin is fucking _glistening_  with effort and grime and it’s hard not to just throw aside your weapon and jump his bones where he stands.

But it’ll be so much better if you soundly defeat him first. You may not have the muscle memory he does, but you have a processor core orders of magnitude more powerful than his, and the entirety of YouTube to watch for tutorials. Your weight is solidly resting on the balls of your feet. Because you don’t sweat, your grip on the hilt is solid, your identical fingers slotting perfectly into the grooves Dirk’s worn into the leather. Without adrenalin to interrupt your decision-making, you can plot this attack exactly how you’d like.

You take flight, the tension in your thighs snapping as you propel yourself forward, and your speed in this new body takes Dirk by surprise. He’s on the defensive as you slash into his space, close enough to threaten but (you hope) not enough to maim. The hollow sound of steel on steel gets swallowed in the sounds of the city, and between the two of you, your footprints are scuffing up dirt that clogs your internal filters.

Dirk’s not keeping track of his space--he thinks he’s on solid ground. His heel hits up against the brick of the side of the rooftop and you watch his eyebrows flick up in surprise. One more step and you have him totally pinned, your blade at his adam’s apple; fine blond stubble catches on the sharp of it.

“Checkmate,” you tell him, reaching out with your other hand to grab his hair and tip his head back.

This close, you can peer through the dark of his shades; Dirk’s eyes are down and to the side. “Well, this has gone completely fucking pear-shaped. There’s no other way out of it.” A twisted, toothy smile. “You’re going to have to decapitate m--”

“Not even close,” you interrupt him. Dirk drops his sword and you captchalogue it yourself, right alongside yours. He doesn’t move his throat or try to wrench his head away from your fist in his hair. Your fans are on overdrive and your circuits are thrumming. Crowding into Dirk’s personal space gets your hips up close with the respectable start of a hard-on. You will never get over the thrill of being his exact height, how your faces match perfectly. At this angle, though, when you press against him, your teeth are at his throat. His breath gets a little huffy when your canines glance over his carotid. “If I weren’t _so convinced_  you gave this your best, I’d think you lost on purpose.”

“That _was_  giving my best, I could have wiped the floor with you.” With your other hand, you push Dirk’s shades into his hair. His eyes are sparkling with dry humor when you let his head down. “Do you know how much restraint it takes to let a thirteen-year-old beat me?”

“Oh, so it was just to cushion my ego. I see.” Not that there was ever an implied sexual wager between the two of you, no sir. To regain the upper hand, you twist your fingers in Dirk’s hair, lean forward to bite his lower lip. The electricity of his skin always feels so good against your porcelain-silicone.

Dirk sucks in a breath just past your teeth, nips you back to align your lips a little better. His mouth is hot and drenched with hormones that make your taste sensors go haywire. “I’m impressed,” he tells you, breathless, between devouring kisses. “I didn’t think you’d make it that easy.”

What he’s carefully avoiding saying: you did better than he thought you would. “I accept your defeat.” And his arousal, as you roll your hips against his and press his ass into the waist-high ridge girding the roof and keeping either of you from a twenty-some-story fall to the streets below. “Turn around.”

“I won’t do it unless you call me--”

“Bright Eyes.” You can finish each other’s thoughts. It’s so intimate to be so inextricable from him, from his mind, even after all this time. And you want to be back in him again. In every way. In any way you can. You twist your wrist, which cranes Dirk’s neck to the side, and you give him just enough space to pivot and press his ass back into you before you pin him again. It’s irresistible, really, and your robo-dong nestles perfectly against it as you press him against the retaining wall.

Dirk’s hands reach out, scrabble for purchase, grip the ledge. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“I can see the street.”

“You think I’m going to let you fall?” You thread your fingers back into his hair again, tug gently. A little sigh burbles out of Dirk’s throat, and his knuckles stop going quite so white. “Never. Spread your legs a little and your center of gravity stays right back here.”

“Get my pants down first and I’ll think about it.”

Ah. Right. Logistics. It’s a little easier for you, your bodycon suit has invisible seams that can split it any which way for convenience’s sake, but Dirk has these things called pants and they need to go vaguely downwards for you to get access to his princely parts. It’s easy enough to find his glaringly huge Batman belt buckle, snap it open, but wriggling the denim down his hips is an exercise in frustration. Why does he have to wear the tightest clothing for the most rigorous exercise? The real interesting phenomenon here is the small bottle of choji oil nestled in a front pocket, almost camouflaged by the other bulge in his pants; you fish it out, set it down by one of Dirk’s thumbs. It’s his responsibility now to make sure it doesn’t accidentally fall off the edge of the building. Why, it’s almost like he _planned_  for this outcome. Dirk’s jeans are clinging to his skin with sweat-damp and your fingertips skate along between cloth and body, never quite finding the purchase they want. You kick at one of his ankles. “Out.” The hips are too narrow for him to really spread his knees.

Dirk follows your lead, kicks off shoe, sock, and pant leg; his bare foot curls up awkwardly when he sets it back down in a wider stance, protecting his soft insole from the grit of the concrete rooftop. And his toes are already curling in. Perfect. When you reach around his front with your other hand, you find him full hard. Rutting against him from behind pushes Dirk’s hips into the architecture and his hard-on into your hand. “Ah, fuck,” he chokes out, tilting back so it presses his bare ass against your dick.

Right. Because when you divested him of his clothes, that gave him zero protection against the unforgiving roughness of the brick and mortar. “It’s like you think I won’t take care of you,” you murmur condescendingly into his ear. Dirk’s _this close_  to reaching behind and swatting you, only holding back once he realizes moving his hand would mean losing his balance, and probably the oil as well. You pluck it out of his sight so there’s no risk of that happening. “Shh,” from your mouth covers the pop of the cap as you empty the contents all over your hand, and you follow up with a gentle massage of your fingertips into his scalp. That’ll always make _you_  melt, so you know it does the same for him.

Your soaked hand reaches between his legs from behind; you find his balls with your fingertips and slick the whole oiled press of your palm backwards, leaving Dirk a wet mess between his legs. With a finger on his perineum, you can _feel_  his dick twitch, down to the root. Your forearm isn’t in front to brace him anymore, so his stomach rests awkwardly on the barrier as his hips subconsciously tilt towards you–the best angle for this. Before he can think about, and correct, his little tells, you let the rest of the oil in your palm drip down your fingers, hone in on his hole, and start teasing him open.

He’s not as resilient as you. Sometimes it’s hard to remember. In moments like this, though, when you’re touching up against every tender inside part of him you can reach, you can _feel_  just how human he is. You almost want to protect him from himself. Your own body can be rebuilt, you have the technology, but Dirk only gets one shot with the one he was given. His back is already smattered with scars and you long to destroy anything that could have given him such a memento of hurt. While you open him around one finger, you drop your lips to his neck, feel out his pulse with your delicate, crowded touch sensors, and follow it up, down, catch the uptick in rhythm when you press just the right spot just the right way.

Two fingers, and you can feel the harshness of every breath he chokes down. He’s hitching his hips back against you insistently, afraid to push forward in case he chafes his shaft against brick. “Remind me,” Dirk says, half-breath and half-moan, “I need to install mini bullets in your fingertips the next chance I get.”

“What, and be even more susceptible to this?” Ease out, and then plunge back in with three. You can hear Dirk’s fingernails scratching up loose grit from the concrete as you spread him open. “That doesn’t seem fair, really. I can’t just install cybernetic sex enhancements in you whenever I decide you’re too boring for me.”

“I’ll nev-- _ah!_ Be too boring for you,” he insists. And he’s _right_. He’s a curiosity, a treasure, something unique and unpredictable even in his rigid routines and instinctive reflexes. You need him, need to learn him inside and out, need him to be yours, need to be in him again, need--

Fingers out–there’s a pornographic centerfold for you, Dirk spreading his legs and so ready to get fucked, clove-smelling oil dribbling down his taint. It only takes a brief sweep of your thumb to separate your bodysuit at the waist, a tuck of the joint under the fabric to sweep it down and let your cock out from where it’s been choking to death in the spandex. You don’t tell him when, but it’s like he knows anyway, and he lets out a slow, tight breath as you hold yourself steady and finally, _finally_ , get as close to him as you can.

His hips are still tense even as you nudge further and further in. You can fix that. With your one hand still idly petting along his scalp, you reach around with the other and cup your still-slick hand around his dick. A thrust forward from you, and he lets the momentum press him up against the wall, your forearm cushioning his hips and your fingers giving him something amazing to rut against.

Out, in again. An ever-increasing tempo, only ratcheting up once Dirk starts to remember to choke down his moans. And then your hand in his hair forces his head down so he has no choice but to stare at his potential death, and you drive forward at just the right angle, and Dirk yells “oh, god, fuck!” to every single one of his neighbors. So much for his Strider poker face.

And he feels--so good, so warm, with such a human pulse running through him, greedily gulping down his breaths in such a human way, skin shining with oil and swordfight and sex. The thrust of him against your hand, the clench of him around you, feels so organic, so natural, and “shit,” you let out, the tiniest curse, you want to be in him, _really_  inside him, nestled in his human frame and living in his human brain and never to be separated from him again--god, you want it, you want him, you need this--you need--behind your teeth, electrical charge building with nowhere to go, so close you can taste your circuits sparking--

Dirk hollers some nonsense vowel sound into the void and orgasms against your hand, the clench of him drawing you in--the furthest you can go--you crush his hips to yours, lay your chest over his back, and overload with a hum so urgent and loud it vibrates through both your bodies.

It takes a hot minute for your wiring to get back under control. Dirk’s breathing hard under you, head hung low between his shoulders with exhaustion and satisfaction. You try to draw his head up so you can pull him away from the edge, and that’s when you notice your hand shaking. Your arm. Miniature recalibrations happening on a second-by-second basis. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just your upper extremities, but your knees feel almost weak and the tremor in your ankles means you’re at a real risk of losing your balance.

You pull out of Dirk--gently, he does one of those soft vowel noises that you know isn’t pain, but a warning that that’s where you’re going--and sit your fucking ass down before you hurt someone. Not entirely voluntarily, either. Your backwards momentum, plus your ankles giving out, means you basically slip on nothing and end up hitting the rooftop ass first.

“Fuck,” Dirk huffs out. A few huffs of breath that’s the closest he can get to a laugh while still being this winded. Your suit’s sealing itself back up, even though your crotch is still slick, and you wonder if that’s going to hurt you later. “Oh, god,” Dirk moans again, this time trying to find the waistband of his pants with his bare toes so he can get himself dressed again. He manages to pull up his pants without looking _too_  fucked, and while he’s doing his fly and his belt, he turns around to check on you. The way you can see the white in his eyes as he looks you over makes your coolant freeze. “God, what the hell happened?”

“I don’t know–”

“You’re shaking,” Dirk says. You’re glad he can state the obvious, you just wish it wasn’t so obvious to him how much of a mess you are right now. “Your suit is fucking soaked through--your arm, Hal, look at your arm!”

Which arm? The hand you had at his head is fine, if still spasming out of your control. Your other hand–when you turn it over to take a look at the back of it, it’s completely chewed up, gouges and dents and scratches in your synthetic skin, some bad enough to leave exposed wiring. You follow the extent of the damage up your forearm, where keeping Dirk from rubbing himself raw against the brick retaining wall just meant you took the brunt of it yourself. “Well, shit,” you say idly, moving to touch one of the frayed wires.

“Don’t!” Dirk snaps before you spark yourself. “Hal, god, you can’t just keep _doing_  this to yourself, I know you think you’re indestructible but I just--when you’re--you can’t _do this_ to me. Come on, we gotta take care of you, I can’t stand worrying about you this much.”

He reaches for your hand, skips it and hauls you up by the wrist. He’s a hot mess, and so are you, but between the two of you, with his thoroughly-fucked ass and your unsteady legs, you make it down the stairs and back to the apartment. His protectiveness of you perfectly mirrors your anxiety over his fragile human body. You just wish he’d let you take care of him, too.


End file.
